Christopher Withers Poems

Life is
fake,
life is
real,
...

vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
...

I used to think the restless waves,
Touched the beach in sweet embrace,
Shaped its form with loving hand,
Bestowing gifts to charm its swain.
...

words elude my breaking sight,
dream, and dreams of forms
bear might.
built and forged upon the light, now -
...

willingly, each night we fade,
drifting out from structured thought
into yawning oblivious depth:
willingly, our greatest fears embraced
...

what is Love? indeed,
what is it to Love?
how can one glance truth,
fight through the ingrained gloss
...

in lieu of gifts and flowered word,
in my stead i'll place your care.
at each dawn i'll hold you near,
talking of our love so clear.
...

'see', I yell, to the gathering crowd,
but
rather than 'seeing',
each eye, slack jaw and gaping mouth
...

each babe wakes to earths new dawn,
mistaking new for what is worn,
futures cast before they're born.
...

death is
just

cold.
...